


Happy Family

by TheMalhamBird



Category: Richard II - Shakespeare
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Domestic Fluff, Humour, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-07
Updated: 2017-09-07
Packaged: 2018-12-24 16:58:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,376
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12017091
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheMalhamBird/pseuds/TheMalhamBird
Summary: Isabel, Richard, and Edward spend some quality time cooking together, nothing goes wrong, and the only upset is Richard realising that if his cousin, Kate Mortimer, marries Harry "Hotspur" Northumberland, it means that he and Northumberland Senior will technically be related which, urghhhhhh.





	Happy Family

**Author's Note:**

  * For [fiftysevenacademics (rapiddescent)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rapiddescent/gifts).



> For Fiftysevenacademics, who wanted "Richard II. Not sad though"-- it was tough, but so worth it.

“Right,” Isabel said, clapping her hands together briskly. “Let’s get started- hands- Dickon, chérie, hair back please.”  
“You,” Richard said as Edward turned on the tap above one of the kitchen sinks, stuck his hands under it, yelped at the temperature and hastily twisted the tap in the other direction so it was cold water running over his hands, not practically molten lava, “are taking this far too seriously.”   
“Hair,” said Isabel, hands on hips, and Richard raised his hands in surrender and vanished from the kitchen doorway as his wife turned to their boyfriend. “Have you got the list?”   
“Over there.” Edward nodded at the notice board on the far wall as he worked soap in to a lather. “Recipes, respective books, respective page numbers in books- “  
“It’s just The Picnic ,” Richard reappeared, hair pulled back from his face with a blue velvet scrunchie. “Stray hairs and other generally unappetizing things are practically traditional. I know for a fact my father used to leave bits of eggshell in the pastries on purpose-”  
“Put an apron on.”  
“Between you and Auntie York, there’s going to be enough to feed the five thousand- “  
“Yes,” Edward said, shutting off the tap and grabbing a towel to dry his hands, “But we're doing savoury stuff, and my mother is only doing desserts, so unless you want the entire meal to consist of trifle with far too much sherry in it— “  
“There’s no such thing as far too much sherry where the danger of being cornered by uncle Gloucester looms,” Richard retorted. He twisted his face in to a sour, disapproving grimace. “Still got the art shop then, Richard?” he mimics his uncle’s nasally voice, “And how’s that going, Richard? I notice you are still yet to apologize to your uncle John for turning your back on The Company— months of trouble that caused- well, all of us- but your Uncle John especially—years of trouble- are you planning on cutting your hair any time soon—? “  
“Apron,” Isabel said, as Edward snorted with laughter. She grabbed three aprons from cupboard beneath the sink, handed one to Ned, chucked one at Richard’s face, and slipped the third on over her head. Richard grinned as he snatched it from the air and pulled it on, tying the strings in a bow behind his back with practiced ease.  
“Miserable old goat,” he said. “Like Uncle John wasn’t thrilled when I told him he could have the bloody company- “  
“He’d have been even more thrilled if you’d told him you were relinquishing your position as CEO and selling the majority of your share off before the papers got hold of it and stocks crashed through the floor because it was obvious no one apart from you had a clue what was happening,” Edward remarked.   
“…you make a valid point,” Richard conceded, “and I probably should have said sorry, but it was ten years ago, I’m hardly going to turn around and apologize now.”  
“We’ll do the tart first,” Isabel decided. “Dickon, you can do the cheese pastry- Ned, if you can do the filling- I’ll chop the peppers and put them in the oven so they’re ready for you, then I’ll grease the tin.”  
The three of them set to work, Richard and Edward following Isabel’s directions without argument. The kitchen was, after all, generally agreed to be her domain. Neither man was either unwilling or unable to cook , but she delighted in it. Having grown up with eleven siblings underfoot, baking had become a refuge from chaos at an early age—and from there it had only been a short step to three course meals and hot hors d'oeuvres, since the longer something took to prepare, the more peace and quiet she had. Relishing the space it offered had led to relishing the task itself, and since university, and then marrying Richard, she had had far fewer opportunities to cater for so many people—so she had been thrilled when Edward’s mother had stopped by for a coffee and a chat and asked if she would mind helping out with the food for this year’s Picnic. “It’s only eight or nine dishes we need, really,” she had said, “It can all be done the night before, get the boys to help you.”   
That had been Monday. Tuesday and Wednesday had been spent finding dishes that were appropriately picnic-like but a little more interesting than stacks of sandwiches and plates of sausage rolls; Thursday had been spent shopping. It was Friday afternoon; the picnic was tomorrow. They had the evening to make eight separate dishes, do all the washing up, all the drying up, and try and fit everything in to the fridge. Isabel was practically glowing with excitement; Edward was always cheerful when he could make himself useful and more so when he could be useful in good company; Richard knew the two people he cared for most in the world were happy, and that was compensation enough for flakes of pastry getting beneath his nails. The tart was finished; Richard immediately sought a nail brush and then, when his nails were sufficiently cleaned of gunk, said: “I’ll do the chicken thing if you want to deal with the stir-fry— Ned can wash up— “  
***   
“Where’s my knife gone!”  
“Which knife, there’s a knife there- “  
“No, that’s not- it was the sharp one- “  
“Oh that’s helpful.” Isabel rolled her eyes, up to her elbows in soapy water. “The sharp knife, that really clears DON’T YOU DARE!” she shrieked, ducking as Edward flung a handful of pepper stalks at her. They sailed wide; she splashed water back at him; Richard grabbed a tea towel from the oven and chucked it in the general direction of the puddle on the floor as the timer on the oven set off and he pulled the oven door open, flapping his hand in front of his face as a great cloud of steam puffed out and in to his face.   
“Was that for the chicken or the salmon?” he asked.  
“Chicken.” Said Isabel, at the exact same time as Edward said “Salmon,” and Richard said “Neither of them are done anyway” and shut the oven door. “Ned, there’s a knife by your foot, watch you don’t- “  
“aha!”  
“-tread on it, darling- “  
“-Sorry, Izzy, do you mind if I just- “  
“-go ahead.” Isabel stepped to the side to let Edward rinse the knife, wiping her forehead. There was a rosy glow to her cheeks, and her hair was coming out of it’s braid. Richard’s scrunchie had mysteriously found its way out of his hair and on to his wrist, again, and she was just debating the merits of telling him off when Ned cursed and stuck his finger in to his mouth.  
“What happened?”  
“Cut myself. Ow.” He pulled a face. “Wow.”  
“Let me see.” Richard glided over and took Edward’s hand. Little beads of blood welled up along a small slice in his skin; Richard kissed it. “I’ll go and get you a plaster.”  
“I’ll go and get me a plaster.” Edward smacked a kiss on Richard’s forehead. “You deal with the chicken.”  
“Gah!” Richard whirled around and glared at the oven, which had started it's insistent bleeping again, “Alright, alright, I've got it, shut up- oh! that looks wonderful.”

***   
“Who wants a cup of tea?” Edward asked, then rolled his eyes as both Richard and Isabel pulled faces. “Heathens. Honestly, British and won’t touch a cup of tea- “  
“Isabel’s French.”  
“And? What’s your excuse?”  
“My boyfriend buys rubbish tea.”  
“It’s Yorkshire tea!”  
“Like I said, rubbish. ”  
“It’s not rubbish.” Edward switched the kettle on to boil and stuck a tea bag in the pot. “You’re just a snob, with your loose leaf Earl Assam or whatever— “  
“Earl Grey,” said Richard, looking physically pained. “Isabel, coffee?”  
“Merci,” said Isabel, running a fountain pen down the to Do List to cross of what they’d done since she’d crossed everything off when they’d stopped for dinner. The kitchen smelt of mustard and frying vegetables and roasted chicken and poached salmon and- as Richard retrieved a packet of coffee beans from the cupboard- a wonderful scent of freshly ground coffee.  
“Heathens,” said Edward again, cheerfully. “How’re we doing, Izzy?”  
“We’re done.” She capped the pen, and tossed it on to the side, wiped her hands triumphantly on her apron, and pulled it over her head. “We pause before we tackle the washing up, I think.”  
Richard snagged Edward’s teapot and placed it on a tray with a cafetiere filled with ink-black coffee, a stack of china cups and saucers, and a delicate little milk jug. “Well, thank God that’s over,” he sighed.  
“You enjoyed yourself.”  
“I did not.”  
“You did,”  
“I did not.”  
“You did, Dickon,” Edward took Isabel’s side “If you weren’t you’d have just walked out.”  
“Oh look,” Richard said as he moved through the dining room in to the sitting room beyond. “I’m walking où-Mathe! Down! Down, I’m carrying- silly thing, out the way!”  
***   
Once Mathe got out from under Richard’s legs- by darting straight under Isabel’s feet and sniffing round Edward’s ankles- the three humans arranged themselves on armchairs and stretched out on sofas. Mathe wagged his tail excitedly, darting between the three of them as he tried to decide which of his people was more likely to fuss over him if he went to join them. Since Richard was the first to put aside his coffee and start fussing over him, he leapt up on to the sofa and curled up on top of Richard as Isabel said “Mathe, you’re not allowed up there, get down.”   
Mathe ignored her. Richard, too, studiously avoided looking in her direction as he scratched Mathe’s ears, and Isabel, having reminded the pair of them about the no-animals-on-the-furniture-rule, settled back, content to let them break it. Edward said, “Technically speaking, he’s on Richard, not the sofa- mm.” He swallowed a mouthful of tea. Then continued in a far-too-casual tone of voice: “And on the subject of technicalities, I’m afraid I have to tell you, Dickon, that Northumberland’s coming to the picnic tomorrow.”  
“WHAT?!” Richard shot upright like a coiled spring that had been pressed down and then release suddenly. “Why- how-NORTHUMBERLAND?” He slumped back down again, petting a whining Mathe in an apology for disturbing him. “Why?” he moaned.   
“Well the Mortimers are coming, and you know little Katie’s all grown up and engaged to Northumberland’s kid, Harry, I told you months ago, but it means- “  
“The Northumberlands are now technically family.” Richard groaned. “We’re going to be related to-I’m not going to the picnic tomorrow; I can’t face it, I can’t.”  
“Northumberland?” Isabel looked from Richard to Edward and back again, a slight frown her face. The Plantagenet Family was a complex, tangled alliance of blood and friendship, and three years of being a part of it wasn't always any help when it came to unravelling the mess. “Northumberland is…?”  
“Smug. Insufferable. Like a slug crossed with a weasel and a…I don’t know, some other mildly unpleasant, crawly thing. A rat, maybe-“  
“Northumberland,” Edward said, cutting across Richard’s whining, “Is a colleague and friend of Henry’s Henry Lancaster. Senior. He, uh, he-that is, Northumberland and Richard. Well. It was a sort of instant mutual dislike thing from the moment they laid eyes on each other- “  
“Northumberland- “Richard said, in the same tone one might say ‘arsenic’, or ‘steaming piles of dung’ “-is what would happen if you took all of Henry’s redeemable qualities and replaced them with totally remorseless, self-serving ambition.”  
“I thought Henry had no redeemable qualities?”   
“He has one or two.”  
“Like what?”  
“Like not being Northumberland. I’m not going. Uncle Lancaster I can put up with, Henry I can manage, Gloucester I can avoid, but I am not going to the bloody thing if Northumberland’s going to be there.”  
Edward and Isabel exchanged looks. “You can’t not come,” Isabel said, lips drawing in to a pout. “Not after we’ve worked so hard this evening.”  
“You don’t have to speak to Northumberland,” Edward said—hopefully, as though he wished, rather than believed, that to be the case. “And,” he continued, “Kate and Harry will be there, and you always were fond of- well, both of them, really- plus- father told me that Henry only got Hal to agree to come by pointing out you would be there- “  
“Alright, alright, I know, I know. Family, all that jazz, but- “Richard his face towards the pair of them, an unusually serious look on his face. “You two. You two are the most important bit of my family, you know that, don’t you? Everyone else is…not irrelevant. Well. Northumberland is. So is Henry, nine times out of ten. But you two, I love more than anything. Unconditionally.”  
Isabel stretched out her legs, crossed her ankles, then stood up and walked over to the sofa. “Move,” she ordered. Richard immediately swung his legs to the floor, dislodging Mathe, but making room for his wife to snuggle up next to him. “Edward,” she didn’t so much call as summon; Edward was already sitting on Richard’s other side, and Richard gave a warm hum of contentment as Edward put his arm around him.  
“There’s still all that washing up to do,” Richard said drowsily, closing his eyes.   
“It can wait,” Isabel mumbled, yawning. Time and hard work were suddenly catching up with them; Edward smiled ruefully.   
“We shouldn’t have sat down, should we?" Edward observed. " We’re going to drift off to sleep here and wake up in a couple of hours with aching limbs and a mountain of crap still piled next to the sink.”  
***

He was right. They were, and they did. They groaned, complained, and cleaned up the mess as a family, before traipsing up to bed and going right back to sleep. Mathe clambered up on to the bed, treading over Edward and Richard and settling down on top of Isabel’s feet, and was not scolded, even half-heartedly. And if Incidents at The Picnic tomorrow were going to bring the world crashing about their ears in six, seven months’ time, well- what was that to them? It was all the future, and when it came, they would face it together.


End file.
